A  DECK 


UC-NRLF 


J.  C.  B.  HEBBARD 


,//  /  /-  A 


h'b.li-3 


GIFT   OF 


.  \ 


H 


A  DECK  OF  CARDS 

i  AND  A  JOKER  c- 


SHUFFLED  AND  DEALT  BY 

J.6.BLHBBARD 

KNOWN  AS  JUDGE  HEBBARD 

SOMETIMES  CALLED 

"JACK"  HEBBARD 


Copyrighted  1901 


To 

WILLIAM  GREEK  HARRISON 


OLYMPIAN 
MAN 


328942 


./     Htilll    til    I/It'll. 

.  I   »tan  tu  -cuni 


"Somehow  suddenly  the  other  day  came  the 
thought  that  one  of  the  city's  most  picturesque 
figures  is  Judge  J.  C.  B.  Hebbard — half  cowboy, 
half  scholar,  and  all  interesting — 

"Jocular,  abstruse,  melancholy,  generous,  in 
dependent,  romantic." 

THE  WASP,  SAN  FRANCISCO, 
May  5,  1907. 

"But  for  one  weakness  Judge  Hebbard  would 
stand  close  to  the  biggest  of  the  Judiciary." 
SAN  FRANCISCO  NEWS  LETTER, 
May  4,   1907. 

"There  is  but  one  Hebbard.  Some  Sunset 
Thackeray,  Scott  or  Dumas,  may  discover  this 
blithe  judiciary  and  make  him  the  characteristic 
man  of  our  epoch." 

THE  WASP,  SAN  FRANCISCO, 
May  5,  1907. 

"He  won  because  he  was  known  to  be  honest 
and  upright.  Kind,  just,  loyal,  lovable." 

THE  SPECTATOR, 
Portland,  Oregon,  May  11,  1907. 

And  the  band  played  "ANNIE  LAURIE." 


WILLIAM  GREER  HARRISON 

(OLYMPIAN) 

Three  score  and  ten,  and  then — 

Naught  else  but  bitterness  and  pain? 

Not  so  his  burden;  his  life  is  a  chain 

Of  links  so  tempered,  forged  and  forged  again 

That,  leading  all  like  Abou  Ben, 

He  heads  the  list  'mong  all  his  loving  men. 

No  shambling  gait,  nor  crouching  fate 

Of  chimney  corner  if  it  rains ; 

Fearless  of  death  as  each  year  wanes ; 

Content  with  all,  his  life  is  consecrate. 

"Nothing  to  him  comes  early  or  too  late" — 

A  man  who  does,  philosopher  sedate. 

"Beersheba  to  Dan"  the  span : 
In  Stadium  or  Forum,  new  or  old,. 
None  better  wore  the  laurel  of  the  gold; 
Nor  in  the  race  of  life  none  faster  ran; 
Or  wear  he  cestus,  wield  a  lady's  fan. 
Behold  a  scholar,  athlete— and  a  MAN ! 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

APRIL  18,  1906,  A.  D. 

Dawn  came  out  of  the  East,  waking  the  city; 

Yet,  in  the  morning  light,  some  slept 

And  dreamed  perchance  of  peace. 

Then  Nature  disturbed  her  stillness, 

Muttering,   earthquaking  all   to   life — 

Not  all;  some  woke  not  on  that  awful  morn, 

Nor  since,  on  earth. 

And  some  slept  soon  again,  for  aye. 

The  handiwork  of  man  rocked,  cradling, 

And  wrecked  upon  the  ground 

Midst  roaring  cataclysm. 

The  sun  rayed  slanting,  grimely, 

Through  thickening  atmosphere. 

Then  for  a  time  there  was  no  sound 

But  human  heart  beats. 

And  in  the  lull  a  hundred  flames 

Spit  red  in  half  the  city, 

Reaching  to  the  sky  and  spreading  on 

To  join  in  fiery  phalanx,  each  the  other. 

The  sun  at  noon,  looked  down  upon  the  fire 

As  jealous  of  its  heat  and  might 

As  on  and  on  the  miles  of  conflagration  spread 

In  hungry,  thirsty  greed. 


Great  God !  the  world  goes  now !  it  seemed. 

Men  prayed  and  women  shrieked  despair, 

But  some  could  mouthe  no  sound. 

All  day,  all  night,  and  then  the  next  and  next 

Great   hero  men  brave  battle  made 

Without  their  weapons — water  there  was  none ; 

The  earthquake  wrenched  it   from  them. 

The  Fire  Chief  lay  dead,  killed  by  falling  walls- 
Sullivan  the  Great — Dennis  Sullivan,  a  Man 

If  ever  one  did  live — a  friend; 

One  who  could  look  you  in  the  eye  unflinchingly ; 

A  man  unashamed  and  unafraid; 

God  rest  his  bold,  brave  soul ! 

And  midst  the  wreck,  men  met 

And  grasped  each  other's  hands, 

And  gave,  and  loaned,  and  swore  eternal  friend 
ship, 

And  were  brothers.  But  in  a  day,  a  week,  a 
month — 

What  is  so  little  time  between  the  two  eternities 

Of  past  and  future  ?— forgot 

That  there  was  any  God  save  Mammon, 

And  so  returned  to  commerce  and  to  hell, 

And  garnered  on  again  as  they  had  done  before. 

Let  cataclysm  come  again ! 

And  be  it  worse  than  that  of  April  Ides, 

If  gold  be  yet  man's  diety. 

There  is  a  God! 

And  some  will  grovel  when  the  Styx  is  crossed. 


ICON 

Don't  break  your  idols, 
Though  their  feet  be  clay; 
You'll  need  them — e'en  the  pieces 

Some  dark  day. 

Instead  of  breaking,  mend  them; 
Patch,  and  pare,  and  mould 
Until  you  have  an  idol  better  than  the  old. 


CHANCES 

We  turned  the  dice  box,  you  and  I, 
And  I  have  often  wondered  why 
We  took  such  chances  on  that  summer  day; 
You  won,  but  you  have  had  to  pay. 

The  stake  was  Dollie — did  we  really  care 
Who  shook  the  highest  for  her  golden  hair? 
Or,  if  it  only  seemed  her  eyes  of  blue 
Made  reckless  more  than  eyes  of  other  hue. 

You  won,  and  then  I  bought  the  wine 

And  toasted  you  in  fullness  of  resign ; 

We  left  the  club-house — fondest  friends  on  earth 

Forgetting  even  Dollie  in  our  vinous  mirth. 

You  married  her  and  I  stood  by  your  side ; 
I  saw  you  from  the  chancel  proudly  glide, 
Amid  the  rain  of  rice  that  showered  free. 
Her  blue  eyes  looked  in  mine,  and  shivered  me. 

If  I  had  turned  that  day  the  winning  dice 
And  married  Doll — I  know  it  isn't  nice 
To  wonder,  if  like  me,  you'd  have  the  bother 
Of  knowing  she  wed  one,  but  loved  the  other ! 


THE  FLIPPANT  AGE 

There  were,  so  archaeologists  and  geologists 
tell  us,  ages  of  iron  and  stone  and  so  forth. 

This  is  the  Flippant  Age,  and  so  it  will  be 
known  in  all  ages  yet  to  come. 

There  is  no  rest  today. 

No  babbling  brooks,  no  cows  coming  home 
from  the  meadows;  no  more  the  berries  and 
cream,  and  the  shortcake  with  the  dear  old 
mother  presiding  at  the  table  asking  you  to 
pass  again  your  plate. 

God  help  us  children ! 

Our  dear,  sweet,  gentle  lady  mothers  are  no 
more. 

We  did  not  appreciate  them  while  they  lived. 

Now  it  is  too  late  to  give  them  recompense. 

Most  women  now  give  five  o'clock  teas,  and 
belong  to  clubs,  and  go  to  good  doctors. 

Yes,  'tis  even  so. 

These  are  cold,  unrelenting,  frequent  facts. 

And  who  reads  anything  today  of  serious  im 
port? 

Who  writes? 

Yes  Gertrude  Atherton  and  Oliver — a  few 
have  written,  but  who  reads  or  understands? 


You,  tonight,  would  not  sit  through  Hamlet, 
or  if  you  did,  you  would  not  understand  the 
lines ;  you  would  not  know  what  Hamlet  meant 
when  he  said,  "  Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good 
mother,  nor  melancholy  suit  of  solemn  black." 

Who  would  spend  a  night  with  Richelieu,  and 
know  or  care  a  damn  about  it — "Around  her 
form  I  draw  the  solemn  circle  of  our  church. 
Step  but  a  foot  within  its  border  and  upon  thy 
head,  yea,  even  though  it  wear  a  crown,  I'll 
hurl  the  curse  of  Rome." 

Now,  we  go  to  hear  "I  don't  like  no  Cheap 
Man",  or,  "All  coons  Look  Alike  To  Me",  and 
shriek  our  merriment. 

Food  is  adulterated. 

Bad  milk  is  sold  to  sick  babies. 

All  for  money,  money,  money  which  men 
accumulate,  never  enjoy,  and  then  they  die  and 
go  to  hell  (I  hope)  and  leave  it  all  to  children 
who  are  killed  in  automobiles  or  by  bad 
champagne,  a  short  time  after. 

Flippant ! 

We  curse  the  men  we  elect  to  office. 

Preachers  stand  in  the  pulpit  and  tell  you 
things  they  themselves  do  not  believe. 


Santa  Claus  has  gone  with  the  ghost  of  the 
Sandman. 

I  have  no  remedy  to  offer,  no  prescription  to 
make  up. 

Like  Marcus  Aurelius,  I  can  only  say  "My  soul 
is  full  of  pity  for  the  sickness  of  this  world." 

"A  Word  is  a  thing,  and  a  small  drop  of  ink 
scattered  like  dew  on  a  thought  produces,  that 
which  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions  think." 


GRATITUDE 

GRATITUDE!    Oh  Gratitude! 
The  rarest  thing  on  earth. 
So  rare  'tis  hard  to  find  it  now, 
Or  the  place  that  gave  it  birth. 


THE  LAST  DEAL 

The    sun    goes    low; 
The  air  chills  fast ; 
The  embers  dimly  glow — 
The  end,  at  last! 
Some  dregs  of  wine ; 
A  ring  of  smoke; 
Slow  thoughts  of  things  divine; 
A  heart  that  broke 
Ghost  glints  of  faces  fair; 
Voices  long  stilled; 
Mem'ries  of  friendship  rare; 
Hopes    unfulfilled. 
Grimly  a  smile  at  things- 
Good  deeds  and  sin — 
"Last  card",  the  dealer  sings— 
The  "chips",  "all  in" ! 


AURELIUS 

I   PASS   THIS   WAY   BUT   ONCE, 

THE  ROMAN  said, 
So  therefore  all  good  things  and  kind 
That  I  can  do  before  I  die 
To  any  helpless  human  I  may  find 
Let  me  so  do  it  now  and  not  defer 
For  this  way  shall  I  never  pass  again; 
The  curtains  of  the  future  never  stir; 
Help  now  the  sickness  of  my  fellow  men. 


Jack  and  Pet  Frank  and  Juno 


THE  STANISLAUS 

Racing  like  mad  to  the  river, 
A  tinkle  of  spurs  as  we  ride; 
So  happily  glad,  that  I  shiver; 
A  friend,  with  a  soul,  alongside. 

Riding  like  mad  to  the  river, 
A-thinking  of  Hart  and  Mark  Twain, 
My  mare  and  myself  all  a-quiver, 
For  the  Stanislaus  waters  again. 

Sonora,  Tuolumne  Co.,   1906. 


MIRAGE 

Close  those  eyes  of  brown ; 
And  let  me  see  your  lashes  drooping  down. 
Your  head  upon  my  shoulder,  just  that  way. 
Now,  shall  we  sleep  ?  Not  now,  not  yet  I  pray- 
There'll  be  a  time  for  slumber  soon,  for  aye. 


A  NIGHTMARE 

One  night  I  dreamed,  and  in  my  dream 

It  seemed  that  I  had  died, 

And  ghostly  as  I  trod  the  other  land 

A  host  of  other  ghosts 

Walked  by  my  side, 

And  they  and  I,  were  shambling  with  the  stride 

We  had  on  earth.    In  Hell  I  seemed. 

I  fearful  woke,  and  could  not  understand. 


CHARITY 

Not  for  a  coin  or  a  piece  of  bread 

Thrown  by  a  careless  hand; 

Not  for  a  place  to  lay  my  head 

Save  by  the  sea  on  the  sand ; 

Not  for  a  mansion  fair  and  tall 

Not  for  baubles  of  glint; 

Not  for  a  dance  in  a  marble  hall ; 

Not  for  the  hearts  of  flint, 

But  for  the  clasp  of  a  hand  that's  strong, 

Eyes  that  look  soft  into  mine, 

Give  me  the  friendship  lasting  long — 

Vintage,  bubbling  wine. 

I  want  the  voice  that  is  soft  and  low, 

The  voice  that  chideth  not, 

The  soul  that  always  seems  to  know 

That  errors  must  be  forgot; 

I'm  just  a  man  of  this  sick  world, 

Human  and  made  of  clay; 

Into  this  life  just  hurriedly  hurled 

In  a  headlong  sort  of  way. 

Charity,  charity,  greatest  of  all 

Should  cover  up  many  a  sin ; 

May  gently  its  mantle  upon  me  fall 

When  the  years  of  my  life  are  all  in. 


AT  MANILA 

(LAWTON) 

Ta-ta-ra-,  ta-ra,  ta-ra, 
Ta-ta-ra-,  ta-ra,  ta-ra, 

Ta— ta— ra,  ta— ta— ra. 
Ta — ta — ra  ! 

The  bugle  call  to  arms, 

And  ere  the  echo  spent 

A  man  who  wore  a  uniform 

Sprang  out  of  a  soldier's  tent; 

A  soldier  tall  who  loved  a  fight, 

In  a  uniform  of  snowy  white. 

He  leaped  upon  the  rampart  high 

And  calmly  viewed  the   foe. 

He  shouted  his  orders  loud  and  fast 

To  his  officers  below. 

They  cried  to  him  of  his  danger  there — 

They  heard  response — they  heard  him  swear. 

A  shining  mark  for  the  leaden  hail 

That  pierced  a  hundred  spots, 

In  the  single  target  straight  and  tall — 

One  man  for  a  hundred  shots. 
He  fell,  and  he  said  with  his  last  breath, 

"God!  there  are  things  that  are  worse  than 
death !" 


FATHER  JO 

Father  Jo,  is  just  a  priest, 
Church  of  Rome, 
And  at  home. 

He  is  known  and  loved  at  least 
As  a  saintly  man  of  God, 
Yet  a  man  of  earthy  sod. 
Good  fellow  at  a  feast, 
Father  Jo. 

With  the  "California  First", 
With  O'Neil  and  Smith  he  durst 
Face    the    foe, 
Father  Jo. 

And  on  the  firing  line, 
The  bullets  raining  fine, 
The  boys  who  had  to  go, 
Saw  Father  Jo; 
Chaplain  Jo  was  not  afraid. 
His  name  is  Jo  McQuaide, 
Church  of  Rome, 
Now  he's  home, 
From  Manila. 


BOHEMIA 

This  beautiful  land  is  invaded 
By  a  lot  of  unbearable  tramps, 
By  a  host  of  conscienless  scamps; 
Tis  time  that  such  ilk  should  be  raided, 
With  their  clothes  and  their  manners  so  faded, 
And  cleaned,  in  the  nights,  by6  the  lights  of  the 
lamps 

Of  Bohemia. 


WE 

Father  and  son  went  out  one  day — 
Father  to  work  and  the  boy  to  play. 
Both  came  back  at  night  to  say — 
"I'm  tired." 

Pop  had  a  wife  that  wasn't  quite  right; 
Son  had  a  girl  that  got  too  tight. 
They  say  sometimes  when  they  meet  at  night- 
'Tm   tired." 

The  father  lived  a  long,  long  time; 
The  son  spent  many  and  many  a  dime. 
They  said  as  the  auto  filled  with  grime — 
"I'm   tired." 

Father  and  son,  they  both  were  dead, 
Didn't  have  time  to  go  to  bed. 
After  the  flowers  and  tears  they  said — 
"We  are  tired." 


TOO  MUCH  ARGUMENT 

Two  sheep-herders  had  their  camp  together. 
Each  morning  each  drove  his  band  of  sheep  on 
to  the  range. 

Some  distance  they  traveled  together,  and 
then  separated,  one  going  to  the  left,  and  one 
to  the  right. 

One  morning,  just  before  they  separated,  one 
herder  said  to  the  other:  "I  heard  a  cow  bellow 
ing  around  here  last  night." 

Next  morning  the  other  herder  said  to  the  first 
herder,  "How  do  you  know  it  was  a  cow?" 

The  next  morning  the  first  herder  rolled  up 
his  blankets,  and  the  second  herder  said,  "What 
are  you  going  to  do,  Bill?" 

And  the  first  herder  said :  "I  am  going  to  quit." 
"There  is  too  durned  much  argument  around 
here  to  suit  me."  And  he  quit. 

This  is  an  old  story. 


THE  FIREMAN 

Did  you  ever  belong  to  a  fire  department? 

Were  you  ever  a  fireman? 

I  was,  once,  in  a  city  of  the  great  Northwest, 
Seattle. 

It  is  a  man's  work. 

Shirt  and  breeches  and  hat  on  a  chair,  and 
boots  standing  alongside  of  the  bed — ready  for 
the  bell. 

To  get  up  all  of  a  sudden  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  thermometer  about  fifteen  degrees 
above,  two  feet  of  snow  on  the  ground,  and 
climb  a  slippery  ladder  two  or  three  stories, 
with  ax  and  hose. 

I  have  done  it  many  a  time. 

So  much  for  a  shout  through  my  own  trumpet. 

I  am  writing  this  to  suggest  to  you,  citizens, 
that  firemen  who  daily  and  nightly  take  their 
lives  in  their  hands,  who  go  out  from  their  homes 
perchance  never  to  come  back  except  upon  a 
stretcher,  and  leave  wives  without  husbands  and 
children  without  fathers  deserve  better  treatment 
at  your  hands,  more  gratitude,  more  holidays, 
shorter  hours,  and  more  wages. 

The  firemen  take  care  of  you  and  your  property 
while  you  are  asleep. 

Take  care  of  them  when  you  are  awake. 


ON  AND  OFF  THE  BEAT 

He  was  only  a  policeman,  Kelly,  a  man  with 
a  uniform  and  star. 

He  was  "Clothed  in  a  little  brief  of  authority", 
but  you  know  how  thoughtless  people  are,  and 
some  say  you  can't  believe  a  policeman  under 
oath,  that  they  are  always  grafting,  they  are 
thieves  or  they  are  liars,  or  they  are  both. 

Now  Kelly  was  a  man  upon  the  force. 

He  had  a  wife  and  a  little  kid  at  home. 

One  night  he  fought  a  man  who  beat  a  woman 
in  a  district  where  the  rough  ones  like  to  roam. 

So  Kelly  went  to  court  next  morning  to  tell 
the  judge  all  about  the  case,  but  the  fellow 
had  a  pull  and  he  swore  to  Kelly's  face,  that 
Kelly  lied  and  that  Kelly  was  quite  full. 

The  judge  he  let  the  fellow  go,  and  Kelly 
went  home  to  see  his  wife.  "Mollie  ,  he  said, 
"I  don't  know,  but  this  is  a  pretty  hard  old  life." 

But  he  kept  right  on  in  the  same  brave  way 
and  now  Kelly,  the  Irishman,  is  a  Sergeant. 


THE  HACK  MAN 

Do  you  ever  ride  in  a  hack — a  glass  wagon? 

Well  I  do;  and  when  you  do  don't  ride  with 
your  feet  out  of  the  window ;  and,  remember  that 
the  man  who  drives  and  takes  care  of  you  is  a 
human  being,  and  has  the  same  cares  and  worries, 
joys  and  sorrows  as  yourself  and  that  nine  times 
out  of  ten  he  is  more  of  a  gentleman  than  are 
you. 

Perhaps  he  has  a  wife  and  child  at  home  to 
love  and  care  for. 

Please  remember  this  when  you  ride  in  a  hack. 


YESTERDAY 

When  I  was  a  little  boy 

I  used  to  wonder  oft  at  many  things — 

Why  people  died,  why  others  cried, 

Why  pictured  angels  always  should  have  wings, 

Why   any   one   should   life   destroy, 

Why  Saturn  only  should  have  rings. 

I  wondered  why  the  stars  were  made, 
And  how  the  sun  and  moon  were  lit — 
Why  flowers  woke  by  poison  oak, 
Why   friendships   weakened   bit  by   bit, 
Why  men  should  other  lands  invade — 
I  was  a  boy  with  little  wit. 

I'm  past  the  prime  a  little  time, 
Yet  still  I  wonder  as  I  used  to  do 
Why  things  of  then,  still  trouble  men, 
Why  many  weep,  why  laugh  so  few, 
While  life  and  sweetness  do  not  rhyme. 
So  yet  I  wonder,  so  do  you. 


THE  CLOCK 

Did  you  ever  listen  to  the  clock? 

Did  you  ever  hear  it  talk? 

Did  you  ever  in  the  night,  when  you  were  not 

quite  right, 
Hear  it  say,  as  it  ticked — 

"You   drink, 

"I  think." 

"You   drink, 

"I  think." 

And  when  you  couldn't  rleep; 
And  you  wanted  much  to  weep — 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  clock 
With  its  melancholy  talk — 

"Too  bad,  too  bad, 

"I'm  sorry  you  are  sad." 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  clock  tick  that  way? 


APOLOGY 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  nearly  every 
thing  we  say  or  do  is  but  an  excuse  or  an 
apology  for  something  we  have  done,  or  some 
mistake  we  have  made  at  sometime,  in  some 
place? 


ALL  THINGS 

Every  spoken  word  that  you  hold  dear, 

Every  music  sound  you  love  to  hear, 

Every  friend  you  want, 

As  through  the  world  you  jaunt, 

You  will  find  if  your  mind, 

And  your  soul,  is  inclined 

To  love  them. 


JUST  THIS  WAY 

Two  men,  both  very  well  known  in  the  world 
of  letters —  one  recently  dead,  God  bless  his 
soul — the  other  still  alive,  to  now  and  then  vent 
his  dyspepsia  and  his  heart's  sorrow  upon  others 
with  pen  dipped  in  gall  and  worm-wood — the 
Carlyle  of  this  twenty  years,  got  drunk  one  night, 
as  literary  men,  as  well  as  others  will  do,  have 
done,  and  will  always  do. 

Securing  a  room  at  the  old  Russ  House,  on 
Montgomery  Street,  they  proceeded  to  painfully 
undress. 

As  they  sat  upon  the  one  bed  and  pulled  off 
their  shoes  in  a  maudlin  sort  of  way,  one  of  them, 
Ambrose,  began  to  cry  and  say: — 

"Why  is  it  Arthur  that  everyone  loves  you, 
and  everyone  hates  me?  Boo  hoo." 

"Well,  Ambrose,"  said  Arthur,  "it  is  just  this 
way,  you  and  I  walk  through  a  beautiful  garden, 
I  see  the  bloom  of  the  flowers  and  enjoy  their 
perfume — you  see  only  the  manure  at  the  roots." 

And  then  they  slumbered. 


J.  C.  B.  Hebbard  and  "Bird" 


"BIRD" 

This  is  "Bird". 

Bird's  a  dog, 

The  quail  on  the  rail, 

Or  the  log,  in  the  bog 

Scurry,  and  flurry,  and  fly, 

When  "Bird"  get's  his  eye 

On  the  game. 

"Bird",  that's  his  name — 

He's  a  dog. 

But  he's  better  than  a  frog 

Of  a  man  just  the  same. 

He's  a  friend  you  can  bet, 

None  better  could  you  get. 

That's  "Bird", 

On  my  word. 


THE  WAITER 

''If  care  were  not  the  waiter 
Behind  a  fellow's  chair;" 

If  the  waiter  didn't  care; 

If  the  diner's  tip  was  fair, 

And  if  he  didn't  scold 

'Cause  the  mutton-chops  were  cold. 

If  the  man  in  the  chair 

Didn't  care, 

If  he  saw  that  life  was  strife 

That  a  waiter  too  grew  old, 

His  nakpin  he  would  fold, 

And  he  would  not  dispute 
O'er  a  nickel  on  the  bill. 

Still,  he  will ! 

And  the  waiter  still  must  wait 

On  the  fool,  such  is  fate. 


JERRY 


Did  you  ever  meet  Jerry? 

Well  you  should. 

Jerry's  very  merry, 

And  she  could, 

Take  your  blues  away 

In  a  soulful  sort  of  way. 

She  lives  in  Washington; 

In  a  flat. 

With  a  woman  and  a  friend 

As  through  the  world  you  wend, 

And  a  horse,  a  dog,  and  that — 

That's  the  end. 


A  SONG 

"Rosary,  my  rosary", 

I  heard  her  soft  voice  sing  to  me 

Rosary,  my  rosary". 

And  then  she  sang  "For  I  Love  Thee.' 

The  earth  may  quake,  go  dry  the  sea. 

Still  I've  heard  "My  Rosary" ; 

Still  I've  heard  "For  I  Love  Thee". 

Rosary,  my  rosary". 


With  my  love, 
yours, 

Harrie. 


BABY 

Baby!    Baby!    Coo  to  me. 

You  are  such  a  little  thing  you  see; 

You   can't   talk, 

And  you  can't  walk, 

But  at  a  fellow's  door  you  knock, 

Make  him  come  in 

And  stop  his  sin, 

And  toddle  you,  and  tiddle  you,  and  make  you 

grin. 

A  man  feels  like  an  ass, 
When  he  hears  a  baby  sass, 
But  Baby!    Baby!    You're  a  darling! 


PAT  KELLY 

Pat  Kelly  keeps  a  stable  in  Sonora; 
He  don't  talk  much;  he's  not  a  roarer. 
But  no  poor  one  suffers  much, 
For  food  and  drink  and  such 
While  Pat  Kelly  is  in  Sonora. 
Pat's  a  funny  sort  of  a  man, 
But  a  better  never  ran. 
He's  got  a  heart,  the  bestest  part 

In  any  sort  of  man. 
He  gives  them  food  and  drink, 

That's  bully  don't  you  think? 
That's  Pat  Kelly, 
Of  Sonora. 

I  like  him — he  is  a  man. 
Play  my  money — yes,  he  can. 
May  he  live  a  hundred  years, 

Go  to  Heaven  without  fears, 
Pat  Kelly  of  Sonora. 


GOD 

I  do  believe  in  God,  and  so 
In  wandering  o'er  the  earth  and  sea 
I  lessen  all  I  can  my  fellows'  woe, 
And,  God  believes  in  me. 


NERVOUS 

His  path  was  full  of  half  burned  cigarettes, 

At  a  cent  a  piece,  and  many  too,  but  lets 

Forgive  the  man  for  this, 

He  was  nervous — had  a  sizz. 

He  worried  every  day 

His   wife   had  gone   away; 

Wouldn't  hold  him  in  her  lap, 

Hit  him  with  a  club  a  slap 

On  the  chest. 

Guess  the  rest; 

Hurt  like  hell, 

Very  well. 

Now  it's  Thursday. 


OTHERS 

Edgar  Allen  Poe  was  a  drunk, 

But  he  could  think,  and  he  thunk, 

De  Quincy  ate  the  poppy  in  a  pill, 

The  "Atlantics"  on  his  breast  now  are  still. 

Heine  married  his  scullery  maid, 

He  didn't  care,  he  wasn't  afraid. 

Du  Maupassant  died  quite  mad, 

That's  very  sorry,  and  that's  very  sad, 

But  the  stories  that  he  wrote — 

Now  read  them  and  you'll  note 

He  knew  a  thing  or  two. 

Do  you? 


COURAGE 

Don't  be  afraid ! 

If  you  were  born  a  coward,  get  over  it. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  except  fear. 

Cowardice  is  the  yellowest  of  yellow  streaks, 
and  it  kills. 

Go  to  the  bed-side  of  a  small-pox  patient  and 
fear  that  you  may  be  infected,  and  you  will — 
you'll  get  small-pox. 

Doctors  are  not  afraid. 

Don't  be  afraid  to  die. 

You  had  nothing  to  do  with  being  born,  and 
maybe  when  you  do  die,  maybe  you'll  go  to 
Heaven,  and  have  wings  and  things. 

The  world  is  a  field  of  strife  and  carnage,  but 
the  most  awful  battle-field  is  one's  own  heart. 

Don't  fight  unless  you  have  to — but  then 
FIGHT. 

"Courage  mon  brave." 


THE  JUDGE 


Were  you  ever  once  a  judge? 

Well  it's  funny — it's  a  fudge, 

The  lawyers  roar  at  you, 

They  know  a  law  or  few, 

Not   so   much, 

Not  so  such. 

The  "rule  in  Shelly's  case"? 

The  "common  law"  to  face. 

"Equity"— what's  that? 

But  they  wear  a  tall  silk  hat, 

Ah!  The  shysters  at  the  bar, 

Who  know  not  moon  from  star 

Are    thick, 

Makes  me  sick, 

In  Frisco. 


AU  REVOIR 

ON  BOARD  FOR  IRELAND 

Olympia\  greets  you  sire! 

Here  votaries  again  desire 

To  speak  you  praise  in  many  days, 

Of  many  things,  in  many  ways, 

For   love   surviving  fire, 

Olympia/  greets  you,  Sire ! 

Jove  godded  things  of  old 

And  was  successful,  we  are  told — 

Not  more  than  you;  the  gods  were  few 

Who  held  allegiance  as  you  do; 

Whose  arms  were  stronger  to  enfold 

Whose  hearts  so  many  hearts  could  hold. 

Olympiarf  loves  you,  Chief! 

Man's  love  for  man— jis"  brief ; 

The  thing  most  worth  on  all  the  earth 

Or  here,  or  land  that  gave  you  birth. 

Olympiay  loves  you  Chief! 

'Tis  "Au  revoir",  and  not  "Good-bye", 

As  though  the  parting  were  for  aye 

And  though  in  deed,  we  say  God  Speed! 

All  good  things  follow  where  you  lead 

In  lovely  vale,  o'er  mountain  high. 

Yet,  "Au  revoir"  and  not  "good  bye", 

Greer  Harrison,  to  you,  tonight. 

We  say,  and  say  with  manly  might 

You  are  the  best,  where'ere  the  quest 

Whoever  gave  athletic^zest 

The  laurel  leaf,  we  give — it's  right. 

Greer  Harrison,  to  you,  tonight. 


THE  JOKER 


This  book  was  written  to  sell. 

A  thought  or  two  herein  may  help  one  or  two 

of  my  fellows ; 

I  hope  so,  but  I  have  not  written  for  posterity. 
This  book  was  written  to  sell. 
Price  one  dollar. 

I  have  left  the  deuces  and  trays  out  of  the  deck, 
but 

This   is   the   "joker." 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.   C.   B.  HEBBARD. 

Copies  for  sale  at  different  places,  particularly 
at  the  office  of  Wilbur  G.  Zeigler,  Esq.,  Attorney, 
Author  and  Altruist,  899  Fulton  Street, 

San  Francisco, 
California. 


Press  of 

THB  HICKS-JUDD  COMPANY 

270-284  Valencia  Street 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


328942 


5ITV  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


